Where There's Still a Little Light
       

It's late and everything settles
like smoke on Ten Mile Lake.
The shadow of a heron glides
above the water's surface, softly,
like someone rustling sheets.
I wish this last day of June would last
another hour; the thin moon
already in the sky.

As the golden light slowly leaves,
a flurry of crows crowns the oaks.
The cloudbank, shaped like a blacksmith's anvil,
pulls to the West. In a little while
I won't be able to see the steel blue dragonflies
circling the reeds, distant mountains
jagged as a serrated knife.

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Copyright © 2018 Thomas Mitchell All rights reserved
from Caribou
Lost Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission